


the rhythm that governs

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Napping, Pre-Relationship, Sleepy Cuddles, pretentious poetry titles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: To whom I owe the leaping delightThat quickens my senses in our wakingtimeAnd the rhythm that governs the repose of our sleepingtime,the breathing in unison.–A Dedication to My Wife, TS EliotThis is a habit he's acquired whenever Molly pulls the graveyard shift.





	the rhythm that governs

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr. I've made some tweaks, so if you read it over there and it seems different, that's why.

 

 

Sherlock eases open the bedroom door, peering carefully at the lump under the duvet, counting the beats between slow inhales and exhales. Satisfied, he slips into the room, toes off his shoes and slips out of his jacket, and climbs into the empty side of the bed.

This is a habit he's acquired whenever Molly pulls the graveyard shift. She doesn't often, but her routine for it never varies: breakfast for her and Toby (eggs and a tin of wet food, respectively) when she gets home from work, then a long nap to get her through the rest of the day so she can go to sleep at her normal time.

His email has been empty – of anything interesting, at least – for weeks. The detectives at Scotland Yard have entered a rare period of competency and are solving their own cases for a change. But it's not boredom that leads him to Molly's flat.

No, that's not it at all.

As soon as the mattress dips, Molly rolls towards him, snuggling into his chest with a slurred, "Sh'lock." He knows without checking that she's still asleep. It's only in her sleep that she comes to him so surely.

Molly knows that Sherlock sneaks into her bed, she's caught him enough times, but he's fairly certain that she doesn't know the real reason why.

Sherlock relaxes back into the pillow, encircling her in his arms. Molly nuzzles her face into his neck, soft breaths puffing over his collar, one arm slung over his stomach. One of her knees slips up to insert itself between his thighs as she cuddles closer.

_Really not the time_ , Sherlock tells his hopeful erection, although it takes an image of Mycroft and the Queen that he's going to have to thoroughly scrub out of his mind palace later to subdue it.

Cradling her against his chest, Sherlock presses his nose into her hair, closing his eyes while he floats, enveloped by her scent and warmth, thinking of nothing.

She shifts against him, trying to resettle because the button in his collar is jabbing her in the cheek. Sherlock considers doffing the shirt, to feel the solid weight of her against his skin. But the last time Molly had woken to find him in only his pants she'd been … somewhat put out, so he opts to remain clothed. It's the safer choice, maybe, but the vivid memory of her face tucked against his bare skin haunts him; a pleasant but persistent phantom.

Carefully, ever so carefully, he nudges her to turn around. Molly clings and clutches and grumbles but doesn't wake. Sherlock murmurs something indistinguishable as words, but soothing enough to reassure her he isn't going, and she gives in, rolling over to curl on her side.

Sherlock folds his lankier form around her, fitting his knees into the vee made by her legs and wrapping his arms around her again. He finds one of her hands and entwines their fingers together, resting them against her chest.

He matches her breaths, breathing out when she breathes in and vice versa. He doesn't let himself doze off; some things, like cases and especially this, are more important than sleep. When Molly is safely enfolded in his embrace, he feels like nothing can go wrong in the world.

There's an hour of peace before Molly's phone on the nightstand sounds its alarm. She tries to reach for it, mostly still asleep, but her hand is still locked in his grasp. Belatedly, reluctantly, Sherlock disentangles them, letting Molly sit up and shut off the noise.

"Nice nap?" Sherlock says mildly, also sitting up.

"Mmph," she agrees, rubbing her face with clumsy fingers. Her hair's a mess, her shirt has slipped off one shoulder, there's a crease on her face from the pillow, and she's stunningly lovely. "I slept really well, actually."

Molly's eyes meet his, just for a split second, then drop away.

"So." She clears her throat. "You've got a case?"

Of course that's why she thinks he's here.

"Yeah," he says. His eyes follow her when she slides off the bed and glide the length of her slender frame as she stretches out her kinks. "It's a ten."


End file.
